


Soulless

by Drag0nst0rm



Series: Brave New Worlds [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Realities, Arthur Is Getting Really Tired of Destiny, Brainwashing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur died at Camlann. </p>
<p>Arthur woke up. Not to a modern England, but to another version of Camelot.</p>
<p>Live. Rule. Die. Repeat.</p>
<p>That's the pattern until he finally makes it to the "future" part of the prophecies and starts being born into the future of each of the previous realities.</p>
<p>Through it all, there's only one constant: Merlin. </p>
<p>Until even that's taken away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soulless

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Merlin.

There was no magical portal that carried him from one reality to the next which was probably for the best, really. Giant magical portals tended to cause panic more often than not.

Instead, he would die. Simple as that.

Except when people spoke of going "on", he figured they didn't normally mean going on to wake up at your coronation ceremony.

That was how it would go. He would become king. Sooner or later, he would die. When he did, he'd find himself in another world, the crown just placed upon his head.

There were exceptions, of course. Depending on what exactly was going on in Camelot, the coronation might be a lot less formal than that, but the point was, he would "wake up" once he was king.

His life didn't actually start at the coronation. He had a childhood, a past, but he wouldn't remember his previous lives until he was king, which was just as well. A two year old had no business dreaming of dying at Camlann.

It was always Camlann. In all three hundred seventy-five versions of Camelot he'd ruled, it was always Camlann. Somewhere in the middle, when he'd started to wonder if he was going a bit mad from the futility of it all, he'd seriously considered banning the name from the English language. It had come closer to passing into law than he'd later want to admit. It was usually Merlin's job to talk him out of ideas like that, but since in that reality Merlin had been a prophet, Merlin had actually been in favor of the idea.

In that reality Merlin had been . . . That was how Arthur always thought of it. For everyone else it was "that reality's Guinevere", "that reality's Uther", "that reality's Camelot." They truly were different people, different places. It had nothing to do with whether Gwen was Celt or maid or princess, blonde and pale or dark of skin and hair, and everything to do with the way in one world she had about as many brains as a mayfly and in the next she could probably compose a treaty in her sleep. It had to do with the way in one world Lancelot all but worshiped honor and in the next he used it only as a fancy wrapping to hide his deeds. Some things he could put down to how the world has shaped them but, It wasn't just their circumstances that had changed. It was their very souls.

Merlin, on the other hand, was different. No matter what changed - his appearance, his age relative to Arthur's, his powers, his heritage, his past - it was always the same wise idiot grinning at him behind those blue eyes. Arthur was convinced of it. Sometimes his innate goodness was buried deeper than others, but it was always there. Merlin, it seemed, was a universal constant.

Then something changed. He stopped waking up in Camelot.

He started waking up in England instead.

It wasn't always called England, mind, but it was how he always thought of it. Camelot was the old. England was the new.

Except England was sort of the old too. More often than not his friends - and sometimes his enemies, more's the pity - were there too. He was the Once and Future King, so for every Camelot he'd lived through, there had to be a future.

Sometimes he was reborn. Sometimes he rose from the lake. Sometimes the others came back too. Sometimes he would be met only by Merlin.

There had been one time that Merlin hadn't been there. There had, however, been a rather nice memorial.

Arthur didn't like thinking about that life.

The point was, Merlin was still a universal constant. Now, though, there were more variables. And sometimes that caused . . . problems.

If Merlin had spent his wait dozing in a tree or cave somewhere, Arthur had a lifetime to tease him about it. If Merlin had died with the rest of them and was reborn into the new life, Arthur had a lifetime to marvel at how little time it took for Merlin to find him. (Arthur's favorite was the time Merlin had found him by waking up, convincing someone to give him their plane ticket to London, taking three lefts, hailing a taxi, and knocking on the door of his apartment building because he'd "had a good feeling about it".)

If.

Sometimes Merlin waited for thousands of years, perfectly aware.

Sometimes he dealt with it.

Other times . . . Not so much.

Arthur had been called back from the dead to deal with dragons, zombies, wars, plagues, tyrants, and horrors of every other sort imaginable.

None of them compared to the time he'd been called back to deal with Merlin.

He'd spent every lifetime since trying to make up for that one.

There had been a second time he'd been called back to deal with Merlin. That time he decided "rehabilitating" counted as "dealing with".

Wherever he went between times he never remembered, but Arthur had the distinct impression that someone had not been happy with him for going off script. He got the even more distinct impression that he had paid for it.

He did not get the impression that it hadn't been worth it.

That had been his last life, actually. He was starting to wonder if this one was part of his punishment.

He hated this one.

Oppressive government, fine, he could deal. It was better than another zombie apocalypse. Those were fun until his friends started getting zombified. Seeing Guinevere like that had nearly killed him.

Seeing Merlin like that had also nearly killed him, but in that case it was in a much more literal sense as apparently being a zombie didn't stop him from being the most powerful warlock in existence.

That had been messy.

Focus. Right.

This particular reality liked its dystopia paranoid, secretive, and slave holding. Not that the enslaved were human, oh, no, of course not. They were the Soulless.

They were sorcerers, in other words.

Arthur had been reborn this time. When he'd recovered his memories, he'd excused himself from the government briefing he was leading and thrown up in the hall.

That was the downside of only regaining his memories in his twenties. That left plenty of time before then for him to do things he would regret forever.

Like getting hired by the government to hunt down rogue sorcerers.

Like being so good at it that he would probably be head of his division within the next five years.

And now every time he had to repeat the lies the words tasted like bile on his tongue and burned his throat like dragon fire. He could almost see Merlin glaring at him. Or worse, giving him that look. The kicked puppy I-know-you'll-hate-me-for-my-magic-but-I'm-going-to-use-it-to-save-you-anyway look. The you-left-me-alone-for-a-thousand-years look.

Arthur hated that look.

He'd thought the worst part of it was still having to do his job. Someone with a career as promising as his couldn't quit without getting asked questions that would lead to his arrest. He helped as many as he could, but at this point, taking a more public stand wouldn't gain anything but a bullet in his head. He'd have to plan, find the others, before he could do anything more.

It wasn't until he'd found Guinevere and she'd remembered that it hit him. Even then, it hit her first.

She'd dropped everything - understandable - and put her hands to her mouth, eyes wide in horror.

It was his Gwen, the first Gwen, so it bothered him even more than it usually did. "Guinevere?"

"Merlin!"

"You've see him?"

"No, Arthur, you don't understand. I don't know if you knew in our first life but - he's a sorcerer, Arthur."

"Warlock," he corrected automatically before it caught up with him.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He considered throwing up again.

"I'm sure he's free," he said, trying to convince himself. "I mean, he's powerful. He'll be part of the resistance. Knowing him, he's probably leading it up."

"You'll check though, won't you?" she pleaded. "I don't have access to the records like you do."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to consider it.

He checked. He didn't bother with names; most Soulless - how he hated that name - were given solely a number, and who knew what name Merlin'd been going by when - if - he was caught. He sketched a picture instead, something he'd grown proficient at, and scanned it into the database.

0003457.

Formerly known as Emrys.

He'd resisted in the Mage Wars. They'd caught him two centuries ago, and cut him open to see what made him tick.

But in this reality he was immortal. So he just came back.

Then they did it again.

And again.

And again.

"Reeducated" him. Sent him on mission after mission until something went wrong and he was sent back to be retrained once more.

The picture of him showed him gaunt and pale. And his eyes . . .

Oh, Merlin.

Arthur didn't leave the office until he'd drafted a highly persuasive proposal explaining how the use of 0003457 could greatly increase his team's success rate.

For once, his nightmares were not of Camlann.

The proposal was approved.

He forced his expression to remain smooth as he waited at the transfer facility. It took more effort than he would have thought possible.

The door opened. A portly handler walked in.

Merlin was behind him.

Arthur could hardly breathe. The picture had been too kind. It had not picked up on the faint scars that decorated his face. It had not captured just how thin he was.

Of course, he thought bitterly. He's immortal. Why bother to waste the money to feed him?

And although he'd known it would be there, the sight of the collar around his neck still sent an unpleasant jolt through him.

The handler was talking, he realized belatedly.

"His papers, of course . . . Ah. And the shocker, can't forget that."

Arthur picked up the thing like it was a scorpion.

"You can dial it up or down with that knob," the man said helpfully. "You may need to use a bit more force than you're used to."

Arthur resisted the urge to strangle the man.

He risked a glance at Merlin while the man blathered on. He had to admire his friend's poker face. He was sure his own was slipping, despite his countless years of accumulated practice.

"Thank you, sir," he managed. "That will be all."

The man looked a bit put out but nodded and left. Arthur shut the door behind him rather firmly and turned around with a relieved smile. "Merlin."

His friend flinched a little at hearing his old name. "Sir?" he asked softly.

A terrible, cold dread settled over him. "Look at me," he ordered, fear making his voice rough.

Hesitantly, Merlin did so. "Is something wrong, sir?"

There was not a single spark of recognition in those defeated blue eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued.


End file.
